Drac Ula: The Complete Series

Summary

The full story of the man that came to be known as a monster and his battles with the demons and madness that haunted him throughout his life in his quest to rework the world in his vision. Contains all three novels in this series.

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Drac Ula - Kenneth Guthrie

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BLOOD

Drac Ula Book 1

INTRODUCTION

You wouldn't know me if you saw me. That beast – demon, you say? – that once they called Dracula. Am I really what you think? Can you say that you know me and my story when the fools of centuries past my time couldn't even spell my true name correctly? These ones that so many consider rich in the wisdom of the past – those fools who know nothing.

In these pages I lay out the truth of a young boy who never could unleash the hatred placed upon his shoulders before he even knew the word for such a feeling. It is not a story of a real life demon or a monster that sucks blood – although there is some of that too – but of a boy turned man turned something more and the trials of a life that no living being should have been put through. It is neither tragedy or joyful tale. Nor is it incorrect.

My name is Drac Ula and I am not who you think.

ONE

A piercing cry fills the dark night sky. The evening seems depthless for the lack of stars in it. On this night fires rage. They burn, consume, take the lives of many in the small village without a name on the map or one in the tongue of those that live there. Among these fires dance devils of sun tanned skin. They are foreign to this place – neither meant for it or part of it. The scream is that of a boy who has no name, a youngling barely old enough to walk a straight line. He is in a hut and it is on fire.

Inside a woman scream joins his. Murderous is the sound of lust with no law. Turks – the enemy of all men everywhere in this time – spring at her rounded, curvy body, wringing their hands in the folds of her femininity. The boy lies flat to the wall as if it could hide him from the dark brown eyes of the enemy that the villagers speak in whispers of as to not scare the children. He is terrified. They drag mother through the doorway by the hair. A thud. Silence. A strange gargling noise wafts out of the room. Men growl and grunt and groan. The boy dares leave the safety of his wall to catch a glance of what is becoming of his mother.

The sight of her wide open eyes, the rag jammed into her mouth and men pouring wine upon her nostrils from a broken, jagged jar as they do things he will not understand until much later, sends him running. Her hand withers towards him, but it does not stop the run.

Stumbling like a newborn, a state he has barely exceeded with his rounded, baby fat coated waist jiggling with every step, he runs through flames and horrors. Women forced and men bleed. Everywhere the crows cry for blood and flesh and food. The Turks feel no hesitancy in giving it.

Into the forest, he runs. Through trees dark and scary. Over brush cutting and sharp. He runs, runs and runs some more until his lengthy legs come to a panting halt at a clearing where something unique stands.

The demon – as he is known to all that hear his name – sits atop his great black warhorse. the faintest breath of white scurries out from either side of his helm. No eyes are visible, nor even a mouth. He stands in the light of fires tearing through the trees, but is hidden in shadow, not moved by fear of burning or any other thing known to mortal man or not. The helm tilts downwards and black eyes the color of pitch flash. In front of this gaze, the child quivers. It wishes to cry, but it does not dare for a moment open its mouth to wale.

You come from the village, boy? the monster asks.

He knows no language to reply. All the words he knows would not be enough to explain the situation as he saw it – as he experienced it. The young one sinks to his knees and the demon strolls his steed closer to look down more closely at he that prostates himself so easily at his feet.

Do you wish to see hell?

Down below – so far below – the boy shakes his head left to right. In the darkness it could well be interpreted as a nod.

He is whipped up. The horse surges forward with the boy over the saddle pressed to the steel of a ribbed armored breast plate that protrudes out from a red cloak like blood that ripples out behind the demon rider as they charge through the woods on straight line that almost makes it seem like the trees are bending aside in homage to that which rides among them.

They surge into the village. Glittering steel and men with teeth bared turn swiftly to the loud gallop of a horse the weight of the big rock that occupies the field just beyond the boy's home. It stomps to a halt and the whisper of steel grating on leather and wood fills the boy's ears. A sword is drawn. In his life such a device has not been bought out before him, but now he sees its terrible beauty and knows a loathing and love that all the living feel when seeing an instrument so clearly made for death that it could serve no purpose other than it. Long and like the fang of a great dragon torn free to bleed in the hand of a human, the sword is raised high to glitter gold and red under the rage of the fire's light. The man, for he could be nothing else with such an instrument, bellows like a boar on the charge. All eyes are upon him instantly.

As if stirred to cause death, the beasts of Ottoman throw up their arms and charge with abandon that is foolish in that they should know better. This land is not anyone but the Sultan's and those that dare lay claim to it must suffer the ultimate punishment. Like bees incited to riot against the wounds of a farmer's walking stick poked indiscriminately, the fly at the man – to them no more than a fool on horseback.

Argh! comes the cry of the first to lose his head to the man's blade. The boy gets a front row seat at the murder that passes after that.

His blade is like a shard of light playing through an uncovered window. It hacks left with brutality and right with finesse. It stops only for one moment when the leader's head is removed to join the pile at the stallion's hooves. After that the men try to run, but one-by-one the demon charges them down with his stead and cuts from them a limb, maybe a hand or perhaps a upraised foot. Blood pours freely and fountains the boy to the point where he is no longer recognizable. He sits tight until the monster turns its horse towards the village to plod in with not a single soul calling out in victory at his feat of death and destruction.

Boy, where is your home?

Raising a shaking hand, he points. The horse sways a little before it comes to a halt in front of the hut where the boy was born. He is picked up by the shoulder and allowed down. Quickly he runs inside. The scene that meets his eyes is one he will remember for the rest of his life.

MOTHER!

Mother doesn't respond. What's left of her doesn't have a mouth to do so.

Stumbling outside, he drops to the ground. Shock: That's what he is feeling right now, but that word too will have to wait for another time to learn. He falls to his side, blank eyes, stare so long into the future that it might as well be seeing his end. Horse hooves and black steel boots come into view.

Did I not tell you that you'd see hell, lad?

A face comes into the young boy's vision. The white toothed grin is devilish.

It's not over yet, the amused man says. This is only the beginning.

He grabs the boy up by his torn and dirty shirt and throws him over the horse. His savior whistles a tune to the death keeper as he strolls off. In the fires was he born and out of them he shall rise. Drac Ula is the name the boy was given that day. Not of the house of the man he was taken into, but with a name enough to be near to it. The first day of a savage future started with this moment.

TWO

Move, boy! the aging soldier growls. Do you think the Turks won't strip you down to your guts with a swing like that?

Dog Leader Stibor straps him a the thong of long leather. It will leave a bruise or a scar depending on his bad luck today.

Slow as usual, Mihnea cel Rău growls out.

It's hardly a fair fight in Drac's opinion. Mihnea, the son of their leader, is big for his 16 years of age, enough that men have trouble facing off with him, and has a nasty streak that could make a murderer look kind. His skill with the sword is unmatched and that is what makes him dangerous. Drac is the lowest of the dog soldiers – the first into every fight – and shouldn't have been paired up with him. It was the mercy that he showed a boy who was probably about his own age of 14 but looked younger during a raid that lead to this. He does not regret his choice.

Continue! Stibor bellows.

They twist and turn around each other, feet pounding into the mud of the makeshift training field on the edge of the army's encampment. Drac steps in deep on his front foot and stabs low for the taller boy's legs. It misses by a wide mile as Mihnea spins around it and him and slams his wooden sword down hard into the back of Drac's neck. He falls to the ground and is buried into the mud.

Useless slag. Why do we need a weakling like you in our unit? You should die.

Mihnea's bare, calloused foot forces down into his neck. The mud is watery. It flows into his nose and mouth. In a moment of sheer terror, he realizes that he is drowning in the filth of the army – this field being muddy because it is where the soldiers come to relieve themselves, which provides the perfect reason not to be knocked down during their mock battles and is quite intentionally set up that way.

My father shouldn't have saved you, red eyed dog. Filth like you is worse than a Turk.

Something large collides with the Mihnea and pushes him away. Drac is thrown aside by the force of it. He wipes away some of the mud from his face only to find Theo straddling his brother, if only by association, with his even larger frame. Drac's red eyes – a defect from birth – watch on as the situation unfolds.

You lay off, Mihnea. You might be Vlad's favorite, but I swear I won't hesitate to gut you if you keep on with Drac like this.

Mihnea stares up with absolute hate. If Theo wasn't his older brother he would probably try his luck.

Get off me, fool. I will not have your peasant stock touch my skin.

He shoves Theo off and stares daggers at Drac.

This isn't over, Drag. I'll finish you one of these days.

Drac looks away only to find Mihnea's ally Demetri The Jew, his only garment a dog collar around his throat, standing watching with a long scimitar positioned against his thigh. He gives the younger boy a desireful look and licks the small ring that sticks out of his lip.

Let's go, Mihnea calls to him. Demetri blows Drac a kiss and gracefully strides after his bigger but shorter companion.

Are you ok?

Theo offers a hand and pulls the young boy up.

Not really, Drac says. I might have drowned in soldier piss if you hadn't come.

The bigger boy squats down in the mud and rubs his shoulder.

He has it in for you.

That's obvious.

Yeah, but it's Demetri you have to worry about.

Drac picks up his practice sword from the mud and leans on it. He doesn't have much to say about the older boy and his 'interests'.

You heard about Seme and Demetri yet?

No, what happened?

Demetri caught up with him during sentry duty. You know how he is with his sword. Seme owed him money, I hear. He ended up giving much more than coin in reparation.

The Jew...

Better not to think about it beyond that he's got his eyes on you, Theo says.

He strolls over to where he dropped his weapon mid-sparing and hoists it over his one well rounded shoulder.

Shall we spar?

Drac puts up his weapon. It is a short fight. Theo is second to Mihnea. The children of Vlad the Impaler are strong. It is a pity that Drac is not as strong as them.

THREE

The long red flaps of the tent burst inwards. Homa Tella – all white and silver in his armor – strides in.

I have come from the Lord's work, my leader. What is it you require?

He flips open his visor to reveal a face such that women stare and angels would weep to Vlad the Impaler, the war leader of many.

Homa Tella, do you have news for me?

None you do not know, the man says, coming to one knee in the middle of the Vlad's sharply minimal territory.

That does not please me. Men have been impaled in my presence for such comments.

Homa grins.

What the Lord wills, he wills. I await your command.

Vlad stands, his great red coat swishing behind him, and wraps one black guantleted fist into the other.

You are much too devout, my old friend. Will the Turks give?

As in fight to the death?

That is not what I ask and you know it.

Homa slaps his fist to his chest and bows his head such that his blond hair flows down over his forehead. The clang reverberates through his breastplate pleasantly.

They will not surrender. You know that the Lord does not allow a Turk such luxury.

Vlad raises his left eyebrow slightly indicating more is needed.

The city is well stocked and defended. They are bringing in the last of the crops as we speak and will be settled in no time. If our victory is to come then it must come swiftly.

How do you judge our chances then?

Slim to none.

So confident.

Homa flips some hair from his face and grins widely. It is a blaze of white the likes of which sends a star like burst of white off his enamel.

I am nothing but honest.

You are that.

Vlad reaches to his sword. It is long, silver and made for the purpose of death alone. Homa admires it for a time as the man twists it about and rams the tip into the dirty floor.

Send in the dog soldiers. We must disrupt the flow of supplies from the towns to the city.

My leader?

You heard me.

The white clad knight lets his hand drop and considers his response for a moment. How to be delicate in this situation?"

They are under prepared, he points out. The 200 boys that we have collected to aid our efforts are still only boys. We have not made lions of kittens, but only cats. I fear they will not be ready when the time comes to fight.

They have killed as many as most in this army.

Peasants and other dog soldiers. Hardly the trained troops they might face out there.

Still, they will fight and you will make it so. We do not have enough men to cover all the towns.

Homa slaps his fist to his chest and bends his head.

As you will.

Vlad pulls his sword from the floor and looks at it again.

I thirsty for the impaling, he points out. It would be good to ride among the Turks once more. That chair is getting stuffy.

Impaling?

Homa's tone is clearly not pleasing.

Do you have issues with my needs?

No, my leader. Never that, but isn't it unsafe for you to leave the army?

Vlad howls with laughter and beats his breastplate like he's about to knock a hole in it.

My friend, how long have you known me?

Since birth, my leader.

Then you know well my ways.

Vile as they may be...

The man grins. It is like the devil has come to play on the Earth.

Vile? Hardly so. Impaling is the Lord's way.

You associate my Lord with a stick through the gut?

The Lord's will is what it is.

Both men watch each other. Homa shares a smile with him. Vlad is not as devout as he would like people to think, but he does obey some of the ways of the Lord.

It is, Homa says, But be sure to distinguish between foolhardy leadership and clear decision making based on the Lord's will.

I would not dare to do the prior, my friend. Your honesty is valued. Vlad comes to stand in front of him. Will you prepare a few dozen stakes for me then? You know that the citizens need a dozen doses of fear to remind them of who they deal with.

Homa comes to his feet and brings them together. He bows his head and strides out the door. He will do as Vlad the Impaler wishes, but it does not stand well with him. The danger of leaving the camp in heavily occupied enemy territory, the impaling and sending the dog soldiers out to skirmish – all of this brings a sickly sense to his stomach. Bad things are coming. He wishes that they weren't.

FOUR

Die you filthy farmer slags! Mihnea cries as he charges ahead of the pack to strike out at the line of men, women and children, huddled in a circle in the center of the small township that makes up their homes. His jeweled scimitar slips and slides through the masses of untrained human flesh, chopping and hacking at it faster than any of them can defend against with the rough pile of armor and trash weapons that they clutch with white knuckles in their hands.

Theo charges by with Dog Leader Stibor. They immediately center themselves on finding the biggest and strongest of the opponents and taking them down. Others surge past as Drac keeps to the rear. Many times in raids has he been forced to fight at the front, but he has found that he does better when hanging back. At least this way he can face off with the grown men and women and not cut and hack into the bodies of boys, girls and children of much younger ages. That is something that does not sit well with him after an attack. Even if he hides it, he knows that his soul darkens every time he kills a child. It disgusts him.

The battle is a game of push and pull this time. Drac fights over fallen comrades and townsfolk alike. He dares not look too closely at their faces lest they be someone that he knows well and his concentration waver from the red tipped mess that is his blade for long enough that he joins them.

Just as this thought hits him, a huge farmer steps through the masses. He has the curved, bulging arms of one used to swinging a scythe or handling a plow. Drac sets himself and allows the man to charge. Stibor is always yelling at him to fight low and use his smaller size to his advantage. This time he tries with a side on slash, twisted snakelike up and around the bent hoe the man yields. It fails immediately.

Like a hammer thrown from the sky, the beast of a man steps wide, brings his fist down and pummels it like he wishes to drive the meaty ham straight through the young boy and into the ground itself with such a force as to create a burial stone of Drac's skull.

The world whirls – time slows – and a surge of something well known and unwanted bursts like a black rush through the younger fighter's body. He hits the wet footprint packed dirt. It's soft wet flavor fills his lips. It mixes well with the taste of his own blood.

The farmer's hoe rises. Its movement is smooth, practiced, a long done motion that reaches sky high, the hoe's blade gleaming bloody brown, before it descends.

Drac squeezes his eyes closed. Better not to see this.

A thin blade. Barely 2 fingers across. It pierces the third eye of the man.

The young boy blinks. He stares.

The body of the farmer falls side on. It thumps very loudly when it lands. Black blood pours like a fountain from the front of the man's head. Drac watches it ebb out. There is no slowing of the flow. It continues and continues and continues. He has never seen such a small wound bleed so much.

You are too gorgeous to let die.

It is a menacing whisper of air against his ear. The sound of it makes him quiver.

Demetri!

The man's hand caresses his side. He is tall, staring, hollow inside, but beautiful without. A youth of 18 perhaps. Close to freedom into the army. Close to a position of honor within the troop for his service. Demetri the Jew: Taker of men and those younger.

Stand and fight! a voice comes.

It is the Dog Leader. Demetri is gone in a twirl of black leathers. His blade dances around him taking young boys and older men but never women. To those he cuts the hands or the legs or the chest. Soft wounds that infect. Wounds that do not heal well – crippling those that receive them. In this he shows his hate for the feminine kind. The blackness that he carries in his heart, or at least this is how Drac thinks about it, does not let for a woman to go unscarred. The man is a violent maniac. One that clearly wants to do the worst of things to the young man. He hopes the day when they come together to decide whether that is going to happen does not come soon. Watching Demetri cut down a half dozen farmers is enough to make him sure that he will never be as good as the young man is at killing.

Dragging himself from the mud, his legs aching, his body shaking, Drac yanks his sword from the bloodied ground and stumbles towards the fray. There are few farmers left now. Maybe 50 milling and churning. It is probably the combined might of two or even three large villages. They didn't stand well against the small group of dog soldiers because they are nearly dead.

Just as Drac comes to the edge of the combat, a rumbling from far off begins.

What is that? someone shouts.

No one calls back. Is it the movement of the land? That happens now and then in these parts. Perhaps the gods are angry for the death of so many of their people on the stakes of the Impaler.

The clang of metal on metal changes that.

Calvary! an aging fighter named Bocskai Maroth yells.

Dog soldiers pull back from the farmers. Their eyes turn west. Uniform is the fear in them.

Finish the farmers quickly! Dog Leader Stibor shouts.

It is too late. The farmers know that their salvation is on the way. They are already tripping over their dead comrades towards the west. None of the dog soldiers except Demetri put up a chase and even him not long.

Pull back to the houses, Stibor commands.

Men turn. Grubby faces, covered in blood, twist into various expressions of fear. Wild eyes, faces taunt, hands shaking on weapons as the steady thump of the horsemen gets closer. Many are ready to break. The Turks are known for having some of the greatest cavalry of the lands. Their skill is unmatched. Pitiful dog soldiers will not stand long against their might.

Drac, this way, Theo calls as he passes by in a terror driven sprint.

The young boy shakes himself from his thoughts and follows his friend. They enter a small hut in the middle of the village. It is mainly mud with stones piled into it. The thatch on the roof is singed from other raids. It smells of smoke and burnt wheat that the farmers have been forced to eat since Vlad took up burning their crops.

Theo slides down on the other side of the door and signals for Drac to take the other side.

Are we going to die here today? Drac whispers to him.

The bigger boy doesn't answer. Only the sound of horse hooves pounding the earth provide an answer.

They are here, Theo whispers shortly.

No longer can the hooves of the enemy be heard. They must have slowed their pace. Probably one of the farmers told them what was going on in the village. It's doubtful that they came all this way to kill a bunch of young dog soldiers. More likely they were on patrol and they came across the fight at the worst of times.

Can you see anyone?

Theo shakes his head. A hoof fall from the rear of the hut sends their heads over their shoulders. Theo puts his finger to his lips and tightens his grip on his sword. The horseman will not be alone. They always work in packs.

Silence.

Nothing moves.

They wait.

Time passes and still the sound of another hoof fall does not come. The soldier must be sitting on his horse waiting for someone in the huts, which is the only decent place to hide, to make a sound. The Turks will have spread out like the dog soldiers have been trained to do. As soon as one hears a sound, the call will go up and the rest of his fellow horsemen will descend on the hut, stabbing through the walls, hoping to cause injury, and coming inside to finish the job. Drac and Theo's hut is small. The swords they use are long and thin. The enemy will not have to come in to finish them. It will be over the second a sound is made.

A clonk – perhaps something falling in a hut – sounds from quite close by.

Horse hooves tremble the ground. Drac listens. There is a scream then silence. Something is dragged from the direction of the hut where the sound came from.

It comes like a grinding on rocks. Cut him! a voice orders.

A wale sounds in the silence. The broken, ruptured like a pane of glass to a angry fist, screams fill the air, loud and never ending. Drac knows what is happening because he has seen it up close and personal many times. Skin being cut along the sides, up around the armpits and over the chest: A perfect square chunk of flesh. The man only stops screaming when the knife stops cutting. He'll be in shock, but not for long. The soldiers are grabbing the edge of the flesh now. It will take some time to do that with their gauntleted hands. When they are ready they will tear it off in one go. It will be terrifying to listen to and that is its purpose.

Theo looks to him. They do not need to exchange words. They both know what the other is thinking.

We should run, Drac would say.

They would cut us down.

They will cut our skin too.

Better to die before they do.

We must run.

Theo shakes his head.

We would be caught. They know how to take a man down without hurting him.

We will die here.

Better to die here than there.

Drac shakes his head. What comes next scares him further.

And what if they use fire?

It is near prophetic. Drac has seen this too. The brands being lit. He can hear the flints hammering on the lighting stones and smell the sparks. Not long now. They will be burned alive. The thought makes him quiver. He has always been sensitive to burns. Too much sunlight sometimes makes his skin turn a raw red. Fire is worse. They are going to burn him alive. He wants to run away but can't. Theo would die too. Only his friend's presence keeps him still.

They are burning us! someone screams. It sounds like one of the older soldiers.

Theo...

The bigger boy says nothing. His blue eyes look out from the door. They cannot see any of the enemy. Perhaps if they leave now then they will avoid their deaths at the hands of the fire the soldiers carry.

Theo...

His friend puts up a hand and shakes his head. His expression is stern. Drac closes his mouth and turns to look out the door. His grip on his sword tightens. He fears the fire. Drac has had enough nightmares about it to be terrified at the thought of being burned.

A crack on the roof makes their eyebrows go up. They look upwards to see the thatching pop and twist. They mustn't be alone as voices are being raised in concern.

We need to leave, Drac whispers.

The moment the words are out of his mouth, a blade stitches through the back wall towards the young boy. It barely misses impaling his right rear shoulder.

Both boys surge from the building. There are others on the run too. Drac charges past Mihnea and Demetri. A pair of horsemen nearby race towards them. Theo sprints straight towards the outskirts of the small village. The horses hooves are almost upon them when the bigger boy turns left sharply and hammers through a closed door to rush the rear wall and pummel into it with his big shoulder, slamming straight through it out the other side. He rolls to the ground and lands on his side holding his shoulder.

Horse!

Drac leaps over his friend without thinking of the danger of his act and stabs the Turk horse soldier looking the other way in the back. He screams and grabs at the wound on his back, which is pouring forth blood down the back of his steed.

The young boy bends down and grabs at his friend's arm. He looks dazed. The usual sharpness that is in his eyes is not present.

Somewhere behind them the sound of hooves twisting in the mud sends a shiver through Drac.

Get up, Theo.

There is a groan of pain. The blond boy shakes his head and says, I can't. I think I broke my shoulder.

You have to stand up! Drac urges, terror openly displayed in his voice. They will be here soon.

Theo tries to get up, but his shoulder is on an odd angle. It isn't broken but dislocated. That doesn't make it better though. A dislocated shoulder hurts just as much as a broken one.

On instinct, Drac drops his sword and grabs at the cape of the screaming man on his horse. The man falls and lands with a nasty crunch – his neck broken. The young boy reaches down and yanks his big friend to his knees and throws his shoulder under the other's arm. Theo is heavy, but Drac gets him over the horse's saddle with a massive heave of his small muscles. He never would have thought he could have managed it if he hadn't just done it.